The theory of moral sentiments: By Adam Smith, ...

SECT. II. Of the sentiment by which we ap|prove or disapprove of the pas|sions and affections of other men, as suitable or unsuitable to their objects.

CHAP. I. Of the pleasure of mutual SYMPATHY.

BUT whatever may be the cause of sympathy, or however it may be excited, nothing pleases us more than to observe in other men a fellow-feeling with all the emotions of our own breast; nor are we ever so much shocked as by the appearance of the contrary. Those who are fond of deducing all our sen|timents from certain refinements of self-love, think themselves at no loss to ac|count, according to their own principles, both for this pleasure and this pain. Man, say they, conscious of his own weakness

and of the need which he has for the as|sistance of others, rejoices whenever he observes that they adopt his own passions, because he is then assured of that assist|ance; and grieves whenever he observes the contrary, because he is then assured of their opposition: But both the pleasure and the pain are always felt so instantaneously, and often upon such frivolous occasions, that it seems evident that neither of them can be derived from any such self-interest|ed consideration. A man is mortified when, after having endeavoured to divert the company, he looks round and sees that no-body laughs at his jests but himself. On the contrary, the mirth of the company is highly agreeable to him, and he re|gards this correspondence of their senti|ments with his own as the greatest ap|plause.

Neither does his pleasure seem to arise altogether from the additional vivacity which his mirth may receive from sym|pathy with theirs, nor his pain from the disappointment he meets with when he misses this pleasure; though both the one and the other, no doubt, do in some

measure. When we have read a book or poem so often that we can no longer find any amusement in reading it by ourselves, we can still take pleasure in reading it to a companion. To him it has all the graces of novelty; we enter into the surprize and admiration which it naturally excites in him, but which it is no longer capable of exciting in us; we consider all the ideas which it presents rather in the light in which they appear to him than in that in which they appear to ourselves, and we are amused by sympathy with his amuse|ment which thus enlivens our own. On the contrary, we should be vexed if he did not seem to be entertained with it, and we could no longer take any pleasure in reading it to him. It is the same case here. The mirth of the company, no doubt, enlivens our own mirth, and their silence, no doubt, disappoints us. But tho' this may contribute both to the pleasure which we derive from the one, and to the pain which we feel from the other, it is by no means the sole cause of either; and this correspondence of the sentiments of others with our own appears to be a cause of

pleasure, and the want of it a cause of pain, which cannot be accounted for in this manner. The sympathy, which my friends express with my joy, might, indeed, give me pleasure by enlivening that joy; but that which they express with my grief could give me none, if it served only to enlieven that grief. Sympathy, however, enlivens joy and alleviates grief. It enlivens joy by presenting another source of satis|faction; and it alleviates grief by insinu|ating into the heart almost the only agree|able sensation which it is at that time ca|pable of receiving.

It is to be observed accordingly, that we are still more anxious to communicate to our friends our disagreeable than our agree|able passions, that we derive still more satis|faction from their sympathy with the for|mer than from that with the latter, and that we are still more shocked by the want of it.

How are the unfortunate relieved when they have found out a person to whom they can communicate the cause of their sor|row? Upon his sympathy they seem to disburthen themselves of a part of their distress: he is not improperly said to share

it with them. He not only feels a sorrow of the same kind with that which they feel, but as if he had derived a part of it to himself, what he feels seems to alleviate the weight of what they feel. Yet by re|lating their misfortunes they in some mea|sure renew their grief. They awaken in their memory the remembrance of those circumstances which occasioned their afflic|tion. Their tears accordingly flow faster than before, and they are apt to abandon themselves to all the weakness of sorrow. They take pleasure, however, in all this, and, it is evident, are sensibly relieved by it; because the sweetness of his sympathy more than compensates the bitterness of that sorrow, which, in order to excite this sympathy, they had thus enlivened and renewed. The cruelest insult, on the con|trary, which can be offered to the unfor|tunate, is to appear to make light of their calamities. To seem not to be affected with the joy of our companions is but want of politeness; but not to wear a serious countenance when they tell us their afflictions, is real and gross inhumanity.

Love is an agreeable; resentment, a dis|agreeable, passion: and accordingly we are

not half so anxious that our friends should adopt our friendships, as that they should enter into our resentments. We can forgive them though they seem to be but little affect|ed with the favours which we may have re|ceived, but lose all patience if they seem in|different about the injuries which may have been done to us: nor are we half so angry with them for not entering into our gra|titude, as for not sympathising with our resentment. They can easily avoid being friends to our friends, but can hardly avoid being enemies to those with whom we are at variance. We seldom resent their being at enmity with the first, though upon that account we may sometimes affect to make an aukward quarrel with them; but we quarrel with them in good earnest if in friendship with the last. The agreeable passions of love and joy can satisfy and sup|port the heart without any auxiliary plea|sure. The bitter and painful emotions of grief and resentment more strongly re|quire the healing consolation of sympa|thy.

As the person who is principally interest|ed in any event is pleased with our sympathy, and hurt by the want of it, so we, too, seem

to be pleased when we are able to sympa|thize with him, and to be hurt when we are unable to do so. We run not only to congratulate the successful, but to con|dole with the afflicted; and the pleasure which we find in conversing with a man whom we can entirely sympathise with in all his passions, seems to do more than compensate the painfulness of that sorrow with which the view of his situa|tion affects us. On the contrary, it is al|ways disagreeable to feel that we cannot sympathize with him, and instead of be|ing pleased with this exemption from sym|pathetic pain, it hurts us to find that we cannot share his uneasiness. If we hear a person loudly lamenting his misfortunes, which, however, upon bringing the case home to ourselves, we feel, can produce no such violent effect upon us, we are shocked at his grief; and, because we can|not enter into it, call it pusillanimity and weakness. It gives us the spleen, on the other hand, to see another too happy or too much elevated, as we call it, with any little piece of good fortune. We are disobliged even with his joy, and, because we cannot go along with it, call it levity

and folly. We are even put out of hu|mour if our companion laughs louder or longer at a joke than we think it deserves; that is, than we feel that we ourselves could laugh at it.

CHAP. II. Of the manner in which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of the affections of other men, by their concord or disso|nance with our own.

WHEN the original passions of the person principally concerned are in perfect concord with the sympathetic emo|tions of the spectator, they necessarily ap|pear to this last just and proper, and suit|able to their objects; and, on the contrary, when, upon bringing the case home to him|self, he finds that they do not coincide with what he feels, they necessarily appear to him unjust and improper, and unsuitable to the causes which excite them. To ap|prove of the passions of another, therefore, as suitable to their objects, is the same thing, as to observe that we intirely sympathize with them; and not to approve of them as such, is the same thing as to observe that we do not entirely sympathize with them. The man who resents the inju|ries that have been done to me, and ob|serves that I resent them precisely as he does, necessarily approves of my resentment.

The man whose sympathy keeps time to my grief, cannot but admit the reasonable|ness of my sorrow. He who admires the same poem, or the same picture, and ad|mires them exactly as I do, must surely al|low the justness of my admiration. He who laughs at the same joke, and laughs along with me, cannot well deny the propriety of my laughter. On the con|trary, the person who, upon these diffe|rent occasions, either feels no such emo|tion as that which I feel, or feels none that bears any proportion to mine, cannot avoid disapproving my sentiments on account of their dissonance with his own. If my animosity goes beyond what the indig|nation of my friend can correspond to; if my grief exceeds what his most tender compassion can go along with; if my ad|miration is either too high or too low to tally with his own; if I laugh loud and heartily at what he only smiles, or, on the contrary, only smile when he laughs loud and heartily; in all these cases, as soon as he comes from considering the ob|ject, to observe how I am affected by it, according as there is more or less dispropor|tion between his sentiments and mine, I

must incur a greater or less degree of his disapprobation: and upon all occasions his own sentiments are the standards and mea|sures by which he judges of mine.

To approve of another man's opinions is to adopt those opinions, and to adopt them is to approve of them. If the same arguments which convince you convince me likewise, I necessarily approve of your conviction; and if they do not, I necessa|rily disapprove of it: neither can I possibly conceive that I should do the one without the other. To approve or disapprove, there|fore, of the opinions of others is acknow|ledged, by every body, to mean no more than to observe their agreement or disagree|ment with our own. But this is equally the case with regard to our approbation or disapprobation of the sentiments or passions of others.

There are, indeed, some cases in which we seem to approve without any sympathy or correspondence of sentiments, and in which, consequently, the sentiment of ap|probation would seem to be different from the perception of this coincidence. A lit|tle attention, however, will convince us that even in these cases our approbation

is ultimately founded upon a sympathy or correspondence of this kind. I shall give an instance in things of a very frivolous na|ture, because in them the judgments of mankind are less apt to be perverted by wrong systems. We may often approve of a jest, and think the laughter of the com|pany quite just and proper, though we our|selves do not laugh, because, perhaps, we are in a grave humour, or happen to have our attention engaged with other objects. We have learned, however, from experience, what sort of pleasantry is upon most occasions capable of making us laugh, and we observe that this is one of that kind. We approve, therefore, of the laughter of the company, and feel that it is natural and suitable to its object; because, though in our present mood we cannot easily enter into it, we are sensible that upon most occasions we should very heartily join in it.

The same thing often happens with re|gard to all the other passions. A stranger passes by us in the street with all the marks of the deepest affliction; and we are imme|diately told that he has just received the news of the death of his father. It is impossible that, in this case, we should not

approve of his grief. Yet it may often happen, without any defect of humanity on our part, that, so far from entering into the violence of his sorrow, we should scarce conceive the first movements of con|cern upon his account. Both he and his father, perhaps, are intirely unknown to us, or we happen to be employed about other things, and do not take time to pic|ture out in our imagination the different circumstances of distress which must occur to him. We have learned, however, from experience, that such a misfortune naturally excites such a degree of sorrow, and we know that if we took time to consider his situation fully and in all its parts, we should, without doubt, most sincerely sym|pathize with him. It is upon the consci|ousness of this conditional sympathy, that our approbation of his sorrow is founded, even in those cases in which that sympa|thy does not actually take place; and the general rules derived from our preceding experience of what, upon most occasions, our sentiments would correspond with, cor|rect the impropriety of our present emo|tions.

The sentiment or affection of the heart from which any action proceeds, and upon which its whole virtue or vice must ulti|mately depend, may be considered under two different aspects, or in two different relations; first, in relation to the cause that excites it, or the motive that gives oc|casion to it; and secondly, in relation to the end that it proposes, or the effect that it tends to produce.

In the suitableness or unsuitableness, in the proportion or disproportion which the affection seems to bear to the cause or ob|ject which excites it, consists the propriety or impropriety, the decency or ungrace|fulness of the consequent action.

In the beneficial or hurtful nature of the effects which the affection aims at, or tends to produce, consists the merit or demerit of the action, the qualities by which it is en|titled to reward, or is deserving of punish|ment.

Philosophers have, of late years, consider|ed chiefly the tendency of affections, and have given little attention to the relation which they stand in to the cause which ex|cites them. In common life, however, when we judge of any person's conduct, and of

the sentiments which directed it, we con|stantly consider them under both these as|pects. When we blame in another man the excesses of love, of grief, of resent|ment, we not only consider the ruinous effects which they tend to produce, but the little occasion which was given for them. The merit of his favourite, we say, is not so great, his misfortune is not so dreadful, his provocation is not so extraordinary, as to justify so violent a passion. We should have indulged, we say; perhaps, have approved of the vio|lence of his emotion, had the cause been in any respect proportioned to it.

When we judge in this manner of any affection, as proportioned or dispro|portioned to the cause which excites it, it is scarce possible that we should make use of any other rule or canon but the cor|respondent affection in ourselves. If, upon bringing the case home to our own breast, we find that the sentiments which it gives occasion to coincide and tally with our own, we necessarily approve of them as propor|tioned and suitable to their objects: if otherwise, we necessarily disapprove of them, as extravagant and out of proportion.

Every faculty in one man is the measure by which he judges of the like faculty in another. I judge of your sight by my sight, of your ear by my ear, of your rea|son by my reason, of your resentment by my resentment, of your love by my love. I neither have, nor can have, any other way of judging about them.

CHAP. III. The same subject continued.

WE may judge of the propriety or impropriety of the sentiments of another person by their correspondence or disagreement with our own, upon two different occasions; either, first, when the objects which excite them are considered without any peculiar relation, either to our|selves or to the person whose sentiments we judge of; or, secondly, when they are con|sidered as peculiarly affecting one or other of us.

1. With regard to those objects which are considered without any peculiar relation either to ourselves or to the person whose sentiments we judge of; wherever his sen|timents intirely correspond with our own, we ascribe to him the qualities of taste and good judgment. The beauty of a plain, the greatness of a mountain, the ornaments of a building, the expression of a picture, the composition of a discourse, the conduct of a third person, the proportions of different quantities and numbers, the various ap|pearances

which the great machine of the universe is perpetually exhibiting, with the secret wheels and springs which produce them; in a word, all the general subjects of science and taste, are what we and our com|panion regard, as having no peculiar relation to either of us. We both look at them from the same point of view, and we have no oc|casion for sympathy, or for that imaginary change of situations from which it arises, in order to produce, with regard to these the most perfect harmony of sentiments and affections. If, notwithstanding, we are of|ten differently affected, it arises either from the different degrees of attention, which our different habits of life allow us to give easily to the several parts of those com|plex objects, or from the different degrees of natural acuteness in the faculty of the mind to which they are addressed.

When the sentiments of our companion coincide with our own in things of this kind, which are obvious and easy, and in which, perhaps, we never found a single person who differed from us, though we, no doubt, must approve of them, yet he seems to deserve no praise of admiration on account of them. But when they

not only coincide with our own, but lead and direct our own; when in forming them he appears to have attended to many things which we had overlooked, and to have ad|justed them to all the various circumstan|ces of their objects; we not only approve of them, but wonder and are surprised at their uncommon and unexpected acute|ness and comprehensiveness, and he ap|pears to deserve a very high degree of ad|miration and applause. For approbation heightned by wonder and surprise, consti|tutes the sentiment which is properly call|ed admiration, and of which applause is the natural expression. The decision of the man who judges that exquisite beauty is preferable to the grossest deformity, or that twice two are equal to four, must certainly be approved of by all the world, but will not, surely, be much admired. It is the acute and delicate discernment of the man of taste, who distinguishes the minute, and scarce perceptible, differences of beauty and deformity; it is the compre|hensive accuracy of the experienced mathe|matician, who unravels, with ease, the most intricate and perplexed proportions; it is the great leader in science and taste, the

man who directs and conducts our own sen|timents, the extent and superior justness of whose talents astonish us with wonder and surprise, who excites our admiration and seems to deserve our applause: and upon this foundation is grounded the greater part of the praise which is bestow|ed upon what are called the intellectual virtues.

The utility of those qualities, it may be thought, is what first recommends them to us; and, no doubt, the consideration of this, when we come to attend to it, gives them a new value. Originally, however, we approve of another man's judgment, not as something useful, but as right, as accurate, as agreeable to truth and reality: and it is evident we attribute those qualities to it for no other reason but because we find that it agrees with our own. Taste, in the same manner, is originally approved of, not as useful, but as just, as delicate, and as precisely suited to its object. The idea of the utility of all qualities of this kind, is plainly an after-thought, and not what first recommends them to our approba|tion.

2. With regard to those objects, which affect in a particular manner either our|selves or the person whose sentiments we judge of, it is at once more difficult to preserve this harmony and correspondence, and at the same time, vastly more impor|tant. My companion does not naturally look upon the misfortune that has befallen me, or the injury that has been done me, from the same point of view in which I consider them. They affect me much more nearly. We do not view them from the same station, as we do a picture, or a poem, or a system of philosophy, and are, there|fore, apt to be very differently affected by them. But I can much more easily over|look the want of this correspondence of sentiments with regard to such indifferent objects as concern neither me nor my com|panion, than with regard to what interests me so much as the misfortune that has be|fallen me, or the injury that has been done me. Though you despise that pic|ture, or that poem, or even that system of philosophy, which I admire, there is little danger of our quarrelling upon that ac|count. Neither of us can reasonably be

much interested about them. They ought all of them to be matters of great indifference to us both; so that, though our opinions may be opposite, our affections may still be very nearly the same. But it is quite other|wise with regard to those objects by which either you or I are particularly affected. Though your judgments in matters of spe|culation, though your sentiments in matters of taste, are quite opposite to mine, I can easily overlook this opposition; and if I have any degree of temper, I may still find some entertainment in your conversation, even upon those very subjects. But if you have either no fellow-feeling for the mis|fortunes I have met with, or none that bears any proportion to the grief which distracts me; or if you have either no in|dignation at the injuries I have suffered, or none that bears any proportion to the resentment which transports me, we can no longer converse upon these subjects. We become intolerable to one another. I can neither support your company, nor you mine. You are confounded at my violence and passion, and I am enraged at your cold insensibility and want of feeling.

In all such cases, that there may be some correspondence of sentiments between the spectator and the person principally concern|ed, the spectator must, first of all, endea|vour, as much as he can, to put himself in the situation of the other, and to bring home to himself every little circumstance of distress which can possibly occur to the sufferer. He must adopt the whole case of his companion with all its minutest in|cidents; and strive to render, as perfect as possible, that imaginary change of situa|tion upon which his sympathy is founded.

After all this, however, the emotions of the spectator will still be very apt to fall short of the violence of what is felt by the sufferer. Mankind, though natu|rally sympathetic, never conceive, for what has befallen another, that degree of passion which naturally animates the person prin|cipally concerned. That imaginary change of situation, upon which their sympathy is founded, is but momentary. The thought of their own safety, the thought that they themselves are not really the suf|ferers, continually intrudes itself upon them; and though it does not hinder them

from conceiving a passion somewhat analo|gous to what is felt by the sufferer, hinders them from conceiving any thing that ap|proaches to the same degree of violence. The person concerned is sensible of this, and, at the same time, passionately desires a more compleat sympathy. He longs for that re|lief which nothing can afford him but the entire concord of the affections of the spec|tators with his own. To see the emo|tions of their hearts, in every respect, beat time to his own, in the violent and disa|greeable passions, constitutes his sole con|solation. But he can only hope to obtain this by lowering his passion to that pitch, in which the spectators are capable of go|ing along with him. He must flatten, if I may be allowed to say so, the sharpness of its natural tone, in order to reduce it to harmony and concord with the emo|tions of those who are about him. What they feel, will, indeed, always be, in some respects, different from what he feels, and compassion can never be exactly the same with original sorrow; because the secret consciousness that the change of situations, from which the sympathetic sentiment arises, is but imaginary, not only lowers

it in degree, but, in some measure, varies it in kind, and gives it a quite different modification. These two sentiments, how|ever, may, it is evident, have such a cor|respondence with one another, as is suffi|cient for the harmony of society. Though they will never be unisons, they may be concords, and this is all that is wanted or required.

In order to produce this concord, as nature teaches the spectators to assume the circumstances of the person principally con|cerned, so she teaches this last in some measure to assume those of the spectators. As they are continually placing themselves in his situation, and thence conceiving emotions similar to what he feels; so he is as constantly placing himself in theirs, and thence conceiving some degree of that cool|ness about his own fortune, with which he is sensible that they will view it. As they are constantly considering what they them|selves would feel, if they actually were the sufferers, so he is as constantly led to ima|gine in what manner he would be affected if he was only one of the spectators of his own situation. As their sympathy makes them look at it, in some measure, with his

eyes, so his sympathy makes him look at it, in some measure, with theirs, especially when in their presence and acting under their observation: and as the reflected pas|sion, which he thus conceives, is much weaker than the original one, it necessa|rily abates the violence of what he felt be|fore he came into their presence, before he began to recollect in what manner they would be affected by it, and to view his situation in this candid and impartial light.

The mind, therefore, is rarely so disturb|ed, but that the company of a friend will restore it to some degree of tranquillity and sedateness. The breast is, in some measure, calmed and composed the moment we come into his presence. We are immediately put in mind of the light in which he will view our situation, and we begin to view it ourselves in the same light; for the effect of sympathy is instantaneous. We expect less sympathy from a common acquaintance than from a friend: we cannot open to the former all those little circumstances which we can unfold to the latter: we assume, therefore, more tranquillity before him, and endeavour to fix our thoughts upon those

general outlines of our situation which he is willing to consider. We expect still less sympathy from an assembly of strangers, and we assume, therefore, still more tran|quillity before them, and always endeavour to bring down our passion to that pitch, which the particular company we are in may be expected to go along with. Nor is this merely an assumed appearance: for if we are at all masters of ourselves, the pre|sence of a mere acquaintance will really compose us, still more than that of a friend; and that of an assembly of strangers still more than that of a mere acquaintance.

Society and conversation, therefore, are the most powerful remedies for restoring the mind to its tranquillity, if, at any time, it has unfortunately lost it; as well as the best preservatives of that equal and happy temper, which is so necessary to self-satis|faction and enjoyment. Men of retirement and speculation, who are apt to sit brooding at home over either grief or resentment, though they may often have more humani|ty, more generosity, and a nicer sense of honour, yet seldom possess that equality of temper which is so common among men of the world.

CHAP. IV. Of the amiable and respectable virtues.

UPON these two different efforts, upon that of the spectator to enter into the sentiments of the person principally concerned, and upon that of the person principally concerned, to bring down his emotions to what the spectator can go along with, are founded two different sets of virtues. The soft, the gentle and the ami|able virtues, the virtues of candid conde|scension and indulgent humanity, are founded upon the one: the great, the awful and respectable, the virtues of self-denial, of self-government, of that com|mand of the passions which subjects all the movements of our nature to what our own dignity and honour, and the propriety of our own conduct require, take their origin from the other.

How amiable does he appear to be, whose sympathetic heart seems to re-echo all the sentiments of those with whom he converses, who grieves for their calamities, who re|sents their injuries, and who rejoices at

their good fortune! When we bring home to ourselves the situation of his companions, we enter into their gratitude, and feel what consolation they must derive from the ten|der sympathy of so affectionate a friend. And for a contrary reason, how disagree|able does he appear to be, whose hard and obdurate heart feels for himself only, but is altogether insensible to the happiness or misery of others! We enter, in this case too, into the pain which his presence must give to every mortal with whom he con|verses, to those especially with whom we are most apt to sympathize, the unfortu|nate and the injured.

On the other hand, what noble pro|priety and grace do we feel in the con|duct of those who, in their own case, exert that recollection and self-command which constitute the dignity of every passion, and which bring it down to what others can enter into. We are disgusted with that clamorous grief, which, without any de|licacy, calls upon our compassion with sighs and tears and importunate lamenta|tions. But we reverence that reserved, that silent and majestic sorrow, which dis|covers itself only in the swelling of the eyes,

in the quivering of the lips and cheeks, and in the distant, but affecting, coldness of the whole behaviour. It imposes the like silence upon us. We regard it with re|spectful attention, and watch with anxious concern over our whole behaviour, lest by any impropriety we should disturb that concerted tranquillity, which it requires so great an effort to support.

The insolence and brutality of anger, in the same manner, when we indulge its fury without check or restraint, is, of all objects, the most detestable. But we ad|mire that noble and generous resentment which governs its pursuit of the greatest injuries, not by the rage which they are apt to excite in the breast of the sufferer, but by the indignation which they natu|rally call forth in that of the impartial spec|tator; which allows no word, no gesture, to escape it beyond what this more equita|ble sentiment would dictate; which never, even in thought, attempts any greater ven|geance, nor desires to inflict any greater punishment, than what every indifferent person would rejoice to see executed.

And hence it is, that to feel much for others and little for ourselves, that to re|strain

our selfish, and to indulge our be|nevolent affections, constitutes the perfec|tion of human nature; and can alone pro|duce among mankind that harmony of sen|timents and passions in which consists their whole grace and propriety. As to love our neighbour as we love ourselves is the great law of christianity, so it is the great precept of nature to love ourselves only as we love our neighbour, or what comes to the same thing, as our neighbour is capable of loving us.

As taste and good judgment, when they are considered as qualities which deserve praise and admiration, are supposed to im|ply a delicacy of sentiment and an acute|ness of understanding not commonly to be met with; so the virtues of sensibility and self-command are not apprehended to con|sist in the ordinary, but in the uncommon degrees of those qualities. The amiable virtue of humanity requires, surely, a sensi|bility, much beyond what is possessed by the rude vulgar of mankind. The great and exalted virtue of magnanimity undoubtedly demands much more than that degree of self-command, which the weakest of mor|tals is capable of exerting. As in the com|mon

degree of the intellectual qualities, there is no abilities; so in the common de|gree of the moral, there is no virtue. Vir|tue is excellence, something uncommonly great and beautiful, which rises far above what is vulgar and ordinary. The ami|able virtues consist in that degree of sensi|bility which surprises by its exquisite and unexpected delicacy and tenderness. The awful and respectable, in that degree of self-command which astonishes by its amaz|ing superiority over the most ungovernable passions of human nature.

There is, in this respect, a considerable difference between virtue and mere pro|priety; between those qualities and actions which deserve to be admired and celebra|ted, and those which simply deserve to be approved of. Upon many occasions, to act with the most perfect propriety, requires no more than that common and ordinary degree of sensibility or self-command which the most worthless of mankind are possest of, and sometimes even that degree is not necessary. Thus, to give a very low in|stance, to eat when we are hungry, is cer|tainly, upon ordinary occasions, perfectly right and proper, and cannot miss being

approved of as such by every body. No|thing, however, could be more absurd than to say it was virtuous.

On the contrary, there may frequently be a considerable degree of virtue in those actions, which fall short of the most per|fect propriety; because they may still ap|proach nearer to perfection than could well be expected upon occasions in which it was so extremely difficult to attain it: and this is very often the case upon those occasions which require the greatest ex|ertions of self-command. There are some situations which bear so hard upon human nature, that the greatest degree of self-government, which can belong to so im|perfect a creature as man, is not able to stifle, altogether, the voice of human weak|ness, or reduce the violence of the passions to that pitch of moderation, in which the impartial spectator can entirely enter into them. Though in those cases, there|fore, the behaviour of the sufferer fall short of the most perfect propriety, it may still deserve some applause, and even, in a cer|tain sense, may be denominated virtuous. It may still manifest an effort of genero|sity and magnanimity of which the greater

part of men are incapable; and though it fails of absolute perfection, it may be a much nearer approximation towards per|fection, than what, upon such trying oc|casions, is commonly either to be found or to be expected.

In all cases of this kind, when we are determining the degree of blame or ap|plause that seems due to any action, we very frequently make use of two different standards. The first is the idea of com|plete propriety and perfection, which, in those difficult situations, no human con|duct ever did, or ever can come up to; and in comparison with which the actions of all men must forever appear blameable and imperfect. The second is the idea of that degree of proximity or distance from this complete perfection, which the actions of the greater part of men commonly arrive at. Whatever goes beyond this degree, how far soever it may be removed from absolute perfection, seems to deserve ap|plause; and whatever falls short of it, to deserve blame.

It is in the same manner that we judge of the productions of all the arts which ad|dress themselves to the imagination. When

a critic examines the work of any of the great masters in poetry or painting, he may sometimes examine it by an idea of perfection, in his own mind, which nei|ther that nor any other human work will ever come up to; and as long as he com|pares it with this standard, he can see no|thing in it but faults and imperfections. But when he comes to consider the rank which it ought to hold among other works of the same kind, he necessarily compares it with a very different standard, the com|mon degree of excellence which is usually attained in this particular art; and, when he judges of it by this new measure, it may often appear to deserve the highest ap|plause, upon account of its approaching much nearer to perfection than the greater part of those works which can be brought into competition with it.